


Meme Ficlet: Memorable

by greywash



Series: Meme Ficlets (Spring 2012... and onward) [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-04
Updated: 2012-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-04 19:58:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greywash/pseuds/greywash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Meme ficlet, archived off Tumblr; unbeta'ed and un-Britpicked.</em>
</p>
<p><strong>lux-obscura requested</strong>: What happened to make 1 really (secretly, even) loathe 7?</p>
<p>
  <strong>1. Moriarty</strong>
  <br/><strong>7. Mycroft</strong>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meme Ficlet: Memorable

"Hello, handsome," Jim murmurs, and Mycroft looks down at him, with that impassive, familiar-not-familiar expression, and gives orders, and Jim says nothing so Mycroft says nothing so Jim says nothing, and cracks out the ache in his jaw. Jim finds, to his surprise and his quirked satisfaction, that in this room in this time his silence can be a weapon, so he says, "Hello, handsome," when Mycroft enters the room and then nothing and then nothing and then nothing, until Mycroft is leaving, and Jim murmurs, "Tomorrow, then?"

Mycroft does respond to that, but never in a way a stranger would notice: a faint hint of a wrinkle at the corner of his eyes, a twist of tension in the corners of his mouth. He doesn't remember, Jim knows; Mycroft will always almost remember but not quite, and then he will forget that he was even trying to remember. It's for the best. Eventually, against all odds, Jim gets him talking, which is more than he'd hoped, if he must be honest. Mycroft's never been much for idle chit-chat.

"Hello, handsome," Jim says, and smiles up at him.

A faint hint of a wrinkle, a twist of tension. "Good morning, Mr. Moriarty." Mycroft sits and folds his legs, these days.

"What shall we discuss today, then?" Mycroft asks, in that false-easy way he has when he thinks he is in control and is pretending he isn't. It's ironic, since he isn't.

"1998," Jim says, and smiles again. "Good year, wasn't it?"

"Not particularly, no." Mycroft's throat bobs, and oh, dear, that's the problem, isn't it? Mycroft is bad at telling himself and Sherlock apart. If he were better at it, Jim wouldn't be here in the first place.

"Sherlock fell into bad habits, did he?" Jim says, very sympathetically, and Mycroft doesn't reply. "Well," Jim says brightly. "And what of you? Let's talk of happier things."

"I worked," Mycroft says, very easily. "And did what I could for Sherlock. There isn't anything to tell."

Jim's face feigns surprise. His heart is pounding. "Really?" he says, in tones of great surprise. "Nothing at all?"

It's possible, of course, that Mycroft is simply a good actor, but he says, "No," and Jim believes him.

"No friends?" Jim asks, leaning forward, sympathetic. "How terribly lonely."

"Really, Mr. Moriarty," Mycroft says, almost smiling. "Your concern is touching, but my work, you may have noticed, keeps me rather busy."

Mm, yes. Jim did notice. "Even then," he murmurs. "Back then, in 1998, while Sherlock fell into bad habits, you had your work. Things to do. People to manipulate. Et cetera."

"Yes," Mycroft murmurs.

"Just you and—what, an assistant or two, conquering the world," Jim says nodding.

"I didn't have my own assistant yet," Mycroft says, gently, "but otherwise, quite correct."

Jim forces himself to smile. He almost pushes his hair back, but mustn't, because that is a tic belonging to another man, because that sort of thing is the sort of thing that Holmeses remember, and it feels like a cheat.

"How terrible," he says, very softly. "You must've had so much to do."

"I didn't think we were here to discuss me," Mycroft says, because, oh, yes, Mycroft is bad at telling himself and Sherlock apart. Jim watches his face and remembers bringing him research and stirring sugar into his tea and asking, _Regarding Iceland_ , and once—just the once—sitting beside him in silence and sipping scotch and feeling pleased and accomplished when Mycroft said, _Your work with the Minister of Finance was excellent, very well done_ , and then suddenly off-balance again when Mycroft had followed it up with a name that wasn't Jim's name—but so few are, after all. It's strange, really, how little he cared then, how much less he cares now.

"So," Jim says, with a smile, "1998," and Mycroft says, "Well, Sherlock was asked not to return to university, though I imagine you know that whole sordid story, since if I recall correctly it was rather well documented in the papers."

Yes, Jim remembers. "Yes," he says. "I remember. But I don't know the details."

It's a lie, of course. Jim clipped a great many of the articles himself, brought them in with the tea, thinking _Your shoulders look tense_ and _You're gaining weight again_ and _I hate how unhappy you look_ and _He's a waste of your time,_ but only saying, _Anything else, Mr. Holmes?_ And in turn Mycroft would say, without looking up, _No, thank you—though I'll need the background on Boorman and Clark by the morning_ , and then follow it up with a name but not his name, never his name, and Jim would say, _Of course. Tomorrow, then?_ and try not to notice, because Jim has always had as his greatest strength and most frustrating weakness that he is not a memorable person, that he is small and slight and generic-looking, and at the time, he hadn't learned, yet, how to make an impression.

Mycroft tells him the details Jim doesn't care about, and Jim tells him, "He doesn't deserve you," with that earnestness that he knows always rings false.

"He's family," Mycroft says, voice mild, which makes Jim's anger swell and churn, because that has always been the answer, hasn't it, the answer that answers nothing, the ties of blood that bind and break and in reality, in actual, real, coherent life, mean less than choice or loyalty or love or service or anything else that Mycroft has had or could have from anyone else on the planet. This sort of blood means less than nothing at all.

"Yes," Jim says, and then is silent, until Mycroft is readying himself to leave, until with Mycroft's hand on the door, Jim's voice jumps up, against his will.

"Tomorrow, then?" he asks. 

It sounds just the way it always has.

Mycroft's face tenses, then relaxes, and then he says, "Tomorrow, Mr. Moriarty," and, well. At least these days he remembers Jim's name.


End file.
